


First Time’s the Worst

by LettdViolet



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Drug Use, Drugs, Gen, Happy Ending, Molly doesn’t die, No shipping either, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Sexual Slavery, Overthought this, Slavery, Teen for drugs, no caduceus sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27180805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LettdViolet/pseuds/LettdViolet
Summary: [Episode 25 AU] After being separated from Fjord and Jester, Yasha struggles with her new situation—on a small plantation of slaves controlled primarily with drugs. Or, They’re Sold And Then Rescued Because Happy Endings (it’s not actually the Worst, that just rhymed)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	First Time’s the Worst

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Third Time's the Charm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15203753) by [CatKing_Catkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatKing_Catkin/pseuds/CatKing_Catkin). 



> Hey! I’ve never written for CR before but definitely like it. CatKing_Catkin’s “Third Time’s the Charm” fic is consistently one I go back to. So, I decided to write a prequel! It’s different in style and content. Maybe someone out there will like it, this fandom seems pretty active. Reading that one is not required to understand this one. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I’ve never done drugs or smoking or anything so... yeah. 
> 
> Trigger warnings include drugs, a bit of violence, a bit of slavery stuff. It’s pretty light I think. Oh! And also. I don’t like writing swear words (Sorry) so anytime Beau says something like “jerk” or “frickin’,” imagine swearing. If you want to.

Jester’s screaming and pleading after Fjord doesn’t  _ quite _ push Yasha over the edge. She stands tall, refusing to be cowed by the pitiful little room someone put her in. She keeps quiet and stares through the open door, seeing only another wooden wall on the other side of the hall outside. Just out of her sight, she hears Fjord grunt, chains clink, and voices mutter. A little farther away, Jester cries as the auctioneer continues unsympathetically on.

No, that pure, violent fury hasn’t bubbled over yet. Though their earlier escape attempts failed, Yasha still looks for a good opportunity.

Two guards shift outside the narrow door. This room stinks of wet wood, old straw, and sweaty bodies. Perhaps it shouldn’t be grating on her as much as it is, but she can’t help it. Everything grates on her right now–the gag smearing on her cheeks, the oil rubbing from the manacles to her wrists, the pressure of her hair on her neck that she refuses to move.

The energy in the auction room builds as a bidding war for a certain blue tiefling rages. Jester doesn’t seem to be even trying to muffle her sobs, but they’re drowned under the auction like a distraught, confused child in the middle of a battlefield.

One of the guards peeks into the room, and Yasha narrows her eyes at him. He scowls right back, but doesn’t pick a fight and turns back to his watch. It takes her a moment to realize that the angry growl came from her. Her fingers tingle with anticipation.

“Sold!” screams the auctioneer over the hubbub of the crowd. “To Lady Thirre!”

The buyers sigh as one, and Jester’s crying seems to stop. Yasha lowers her shoulders, but she doesn’t relax.

Someone familiar approaches, breathing hard, accompanied by at least two steps of footsteps and the faint clinking of light chains. Yasha bends her knees slightly and waits. If she’s careful, she and Jester can get out, then they can catch up to Fjord, and they can get back to Molly and the others.

Jester’s blue eyes, wide and wet, catch Yasha’s for a moment as she shuffles past the open doorway. Yasha counts to three, and a human woman appears, one hand holding a chain and one keeping the hem of her blue skirt out of the straw.

Yasha charges forward, quick and heavy. She remembers the shackles on her ankles and works around that, as restricting as they are. The guards shout. Yasha tunes them out. Her attention is fixed on Jester and the woman who thinks she can control her.

In the absence of a real weapon, and with her hands chained behind her, the best Yasha can do is slam her shoulder into the woman, who cries out as she hits the wall. Jester stumbles back, but she doesn’t fall. Yasha dodges the two guards at her back. To her dismay, she notices more guards rushing toward them.

“Lady Thirre!” calls a guard dressed differently from the rest, in a blue tabard rather than piecemeal armor. He rushes forward to the woman and helps her pick herself up.

Yasha bashes a guard’s helmet with her other shoulder. He falls. The next guard uses his blunt club to swing at her head, but he’s too short, and the blow hits a third guard as Yasha pulls out of the way.

She sinks readily into a familiar, white rage, and even the few strikes that do hit don’t hurt. Her gag works itself loose, and she lets out a deep snarl that makes a young man reconsider his life decisions.

Jester suddenly stands next to her, holding a dropped club with fire in her eyes. Her magic pulses, though it’s held at bay by the leather choker inscribed with runes. A chain falls from her wrists in front of her and trails on the straw below them.

For a minute, they’re winning. Unconscious bodies begin to fill the hallway. Yasha tastes blood in the air, a little from her but most of it from the guards. She starts to edge down the hallway, toward the exit. If they could get out there, their chances would improve dramatically.

Jester shrieks. Yasha spins around to see her fallen to the ground, red light bleeding from the collar around her neck. The woman leans down and takes the end of the chain into her hand again. She glares at Yasha, who snarls right back and steps forward.

In the moment of distraction, someone touches the manacles behind her and darts away, a short, dark blur in her periphery. Multiple guards arrange themselves along a length of chain that Yasha discovers a second later is connected to her. They try to drag her backwards.

She plants her feet, growling. Though she slides inch by inch away from Jester, she turns her focus to the manacles. They’re not reinforced or magical, she thinks, so the odds are good that she can break them if she tries hard enough. She has to. She strains against them with a focused effort.

“You’re certainly a beastly one, aren’t you?” says a voice nearby. Yasha doesn’t bother looking. Her wrists, burn, and she knows that she’s hurting herself, but she refuses to feel it. The metal bends, just a bit. It’s about to give way. An edge of panic cuts through the chaos, an oppressive urgency that gives her the power to–

Another pair of manacles snaps shut, just above the first. Yasha can feel magic in these. It races across her skin and fills her bones with sand. Her muscles falter, and she stumbles.

“That should mellow you out,” the voice says.

Yasha’s knees hit the solid wood below her. Her shoulders droop, and her head sinks to the ground as if pulled by a string.

“No! Yasha!” calls Jester, her voice breaking. Yasha pulls against the string to look up, eyelids heavy. Jester’s fingers clutch the collar she wears in a vain effort to get it off as she leans forward. One hand stretches out. More tears polish her cheeks.

Yasha hits the floor.

When Yasha next opens her eyes, she isn’t sure she’s actually awake. The floor isn’t cold, and nothing hurts. Her cheek presses into her arm like she’d put it there herself. She feels downright… safe.

Bad.

All she sees is a small wooden room, nothing but her inside. Well, nothing but her and the smoke. It hangs in the air, circulating like a lazy cat. When Yasha breathes, the smoke stirs on her breath. Her nose feels overstimulated, though she can’t pick out a smell to the smoke. It’s white, like a fire just beginning to burn.

Yasha pushes herself to her elbows, then to her knees. Bandages wrap around her wrists where the manacles had bitten in, though they don’t hurt much. Her heart refuses to beat at more than a sleepy speed, and her stomach turns unpleasantly as she tries to sit up. It bothers her that she’s been out for long enough for someone to put her here and wrap her wrists.

From the higher vantage point, Yasha can see the room better. She leans on the wall behind her and can stretch out her legs. The room is long enough to lay down in, and perhaps not quite as wide. The wood is different than the auction barn. Off to her left is a narrow door without a handle. The only source of light is a tiny candle in a cup of waxed parchment, shoved in a small caged basket in the corner. It produces an awful lot of white smoke.

Yasha punches the floor. Then, because the floor isn’t satisfying enough, she punches her thigh. Even that doesn’t feel like much. Nothing feels like much… Everything is a bit hazy, and not just because of the smoke in her eyes. Yasha knows she should feel more upset, having lost Jester and Fjord and everyone else. She’s finding it hard to be angry.

She thinks, briefly, of the well-dressed woman who she assumes won the bid for Jester. Lady Thirre, she remembers. She can hold onto that until Molly and the others come, or if she manages to find them, first. She spares a moment to wish she’d heard anything about where Fjord went.

It’s just so… safe and warm here.

Narrowing her eyes, Yasha drags a hand through the smoke. It behaves predictably, normally, but… She blinks hard and glares at the candle in the corner. It’s not exactly a candle. There’s a little pile of white powder in the parchment-lined up, burning slowly and smoking away.

Yasha knows what that is. One couldn’t spend any time in a circus or around Molly and not be able to recognize drugs. What kind doesn’t matter, and she probably wouldn’t be able to tell, anyway. What matters is that someone wants her calm, complacent, and unable to fight back.

And  _ that, _ well. That makes her angry.

Or… as angry as she’s going to get, at least. It’s not quite the thrill of battle. She feels too calm for that. Real emotions seem out of reach, like stretching your fingers out to touch both sides of a hallway, only to find you’re several inches too short on both sides, though you can almost feel the wall on your skin.

It would be nice, under different circumstances. She wonders if Molly would know what this is, and if he’d want her to snag a bit when she escapes.

Gritting her teeth, Yasha tries to stand. Her legs nearly fold, which is an unusual and unwelcome sensation. She gets there eventually, then makes her way to the corner and kicks over the metal holder with a solid clatter. She steps on the scattered, smoldering powder until the flames sputter. The crunching of the particles feels good.

The only source of light is gone, but Yasha finds her way back to the spot she’d been before and slides back down. Her hands rest on her knees and her head tips back.

The smoke gradually dissipates, leaving Yasha feeling cold, uneasy, and achy all over. Her wrists start to hurt under the bandages. A headache grows like someone’s pounding a nail into her hairline. She tastes a slight bitterness on her tongue, along with the tang of vomit that hasn’t come up. She swallows against a dry mouth and decides it’s better than being high, in this situation. Her arm itches. Her skin prickles.

She’s not sure how long she dozes there on the ground before the lock rattles. Whoever is moving around outside has food with them. It smells good, but Yasha’s oversensitive nose twinges. It makes her stomach turn and rumble all at once.

Her door’s lock clunks open, and the oiled hinges make no sound as a nobleman pokes in, dressed in a fine, trimmed jacket. Flickering light floods the room.

“Are you awake yet, Beastie?” His voice is the one from the auction barn. As the door opens further, letting in ore light, Yasha recognizes his face as the one that smirked at her when the auctioneer declared her sold, eight thousand gold pieces. His eyes glitter and his lips curl in a saccharine smile.

Yasha doesn’t bother to answer the nobleman, only giving him a lidded glare. She resists the urge to itch again.

He doesn’t seem affected by her stare. The man steps into the room, carrying a shallow bowl with chunks of roasted, overcooked meat piled inside. He casts a glance around the room. When he sees the extinguished, scattered pile of drugs, he gasps dramatically.

“Oh, Beastie, you wound me.” He holds the bowl away from his body, on his fingertips, as if it were hot. “You should’ve been more careful.”

He lets the bowl tip from his fingers, dumping the meat on the floor. Yasha doesn’t react, but she is slightly impressed by the passion with which he stomps on it, grinding it into the layer of dust and dirt.

When he’s done, she hasn’t moved. He crouches, just out of her immediate reach. With exaggerated disappointment, he shakes his head and sighs. His breath smells like expensive spices.

“I could punish you in many different ways,” he says amiably. “Be glad I didn’t choose something worse than starvation. Though…” His eyes linger on her bare arms. “You could probably take it, Beastie.”

Without really thinking about it, Yasha lunges forward. Her hand wraps around the nobleman’s throat, and she stands slowly. He’s squishy and soft, weak, under her power. She lifts him with her.

To her extreme consternation, the thrill of combat remains out of reach. She just can’t gather the energy. Her normal strength is more than enough to squeeze the man’s face red.

“Let me… go, Beastie,” the man squeaks out, attempting to sound threatening.

Yasha squeezes. For a split second, the blessedly cool white rage pushes through the haze. Just for a second.

It’s almost immediately replaced by a stone-cold disconnect. Purple edges her vision, and she sees her own arm lower the nobleman gently to his feet. She snarls, fighting, and movement by the door catches her eye.

The younger man keeps his head down and his hand up. Yasha spots pointed ears and old blisters on his wrists. A magic user, captive, too. His eyes flick up to hers, then down again. They’re wet. His forehead shines with effort.

As the half-elf’s shaking hand rises an inch, the purple light in Yasha’s eyes brightens. Her arm trembles, but she doesn’t let go. The man’s face gets redder, and his eyes flutter as he sneers, trying to seem dignified as he’s choking.

The magic tries harder, but still Yasha fights. It’s clear his magic isn’t quite strong enough to make her let go, but he only keeps trying. There must be a reason, she thinks, since he clearly doesn’t want to be here. She feels a twinge of guilt.

Still scowling, Yasha lets go of the man’s neck. She makes it clear, at least to herself and the half-elf, that doing so is  _ her _ choice. The nobleman immediately takes several stumbling steps backward, out of her reach. Yasha stays where she is.

The man coughs. “You will learn, Beastie.” He turns away from her, spitting on the ground near her feet. As he steps out of the cell, rubbing his neck, he mutters to the half-elf. “Start another dose when Jones is done.”

Nodding silently, the half-elf follows him out without another glance at Yasha. She hears the door lock, and then she’s alone in the dark again.

After some time, a different, burlier man arrives. Yasha lets him kick her around. The man doesn’t seem too smart, but he does have experience, so she hurts but isn’t broken. He means to scare her into submission, not prevent her from working. The nobleman did pay eight thousand gold for her, after all.

When the man leaves, Yasha pulls herself to the corner again. She doesn’t react at all when the half-elf steps back in, timid and quiet as a mouse. He straightens the metal basket and fills the parchment back up with white granules. Magic sparks when he prods the pile, and smoke reappears again. The half-elf steps away quickly. His eyes are slightly red when he looks at her.

“Pray that your friends can find you,” he whispers. His voice is thin and expressionless. He pauses, as if to say something else, but stops, shakes his head, and leaves.

Smoke fills the room again.

As it does, Yasha’s pains fade, and the new bruises become simple colors painted on her skin. The creeping chill that might signal nighttime recedes. She drops her head to the ground and falls asleep.

Yasha decides that cooperation will offer more opportunities than resistance. She’s right. For her submission, she’s regularly rewarded with food and more drugs. She feels like she’s giving up, allowing herself to become dependent, but she also knows that they won’t keep her in a cell forever if she doesn’t make problems.

Eventually, someone comes in that isn’t the half-elf or the resident brute. An older woman enters, tuts, and leads Yasha up two flights of stairs to a room in what is clearly a lavish mansion. She makes her wash off the blood and grime of the last little while with gritty soap and cool water. Yasha’s given a cot to sleep on in a communal women’s room. They start her out with washing dishes, but quickly move her to the stables once she breaks yet another formal ceramic dish on accident. That’s their fault, she thinks, for making dishes out of something so fragile.

Yasha finds that if she doesn’t talk to anyone, and just does what they tell her to do, nobody pays much attention to her. None of the guards or dozens of other slaves bother learning her name. She doesn’t bother learning theirs. She keeps her head down and her eyes open, waiting for an opportunity to present itself.

Working in the stables is easy, and relatively satisfying. Better than doing dishes, anyway. Yasha feels slow when she works. That feeling only ever goes away in the stretches between access to whatever drug she’s on, but the slowness is replaced with nausea, itching, and cold. Already, she’s always thinking about it, and balancing her need for the smoke against her needs to sleep, to eat, to watch. She’d be angry, but it’s hard to feel anything at all.

All the other slaves are addicted, too. She hears them whisper at night. Most of them seem to feel that the drugs are a mercy, and she’s disgusted at the thought. Sometimes, the smoke fills the rooms where they sleep, but most of the time, they’re given tiny rolls that are highly restricted. It seems expensive, but Yasha can’t deny that it works. Each time she’s exposed, the effects seem stronger, to last longer. Something about it screams  _ magic. _

The smoke is far more effective than chains, and she hates that she’s trapped by it, too.

The lord who’d visited her at the beginning never appears, unless he’s walking the grounds or mounting a horse for a hunt. It’s only been two weeks since Yasha began working, and the nobleman has already gone to hunt several times. Part of her wonders if he’s actually hunting, but the rest of her doesn’t care.

It’s more common to see the half-elf. He always seems to be on an assignment, performing small spells and transporting the boxes that the drugs come in. He never speaks. Sometimes Yasha catches him in a window or at the edge of a yard, standing still and watching her. She doesn’t know what it means.

So Yasha watches and waits. Several times, she stands on the brink of walking into the nearby woods and never coming back. Then the nausea begins, and she almost doesn’t control the way she goes back to the manor. If she’s trying to hate herself less, she reasons that she can’t leave, because Molly and the others are on their way, and they can’t find her if she’s not where they expect her to be. She won’t admit that she’s not sure they’ll care enough to look.

Everything moves on, slow and calm and on the edge of insanity.

She can’t stand it.

She’s moving a pile of dirt when she sees them. Three figures–and a very short one–sneaking across the ground with various levels of success. Yasha recognizes their silhouettes, their gaits. She sticks her shovel in the dirt and leaves the wheelbarrow where it is as she makes her slow way to the short wall separating the horse fields from the gardens.

They spot her immediately. She’s attacked by the shady figures and pulled behind a building out of the manor’s line of sight.

Yasha is stunned, despite having expected this, and her reaction takes another second. She reaches down and pulls the short one off her leg, lifting them to nearly eye level. Nott gives her a jack-o-lantern grin and doesn’t apologize. Smiling a fraction back, Yasha puts her on the ground.

“We found you,” Beau says with fervor. “We frickin’ found you.” She almost looks like she wants to rush forward and catch Yasha in a hug, too, but she holds herself back, gripping her own arms instead.

Mollymauk, however, has no such reservations. He grins, his voice just a bit high-strung. “Yasha, sweetheart, I am  _ so _ happy to see you,” he says. “Are you quite all right?”

It takes Yasha a moment to come up with an answer. “I am…” she begins slowly.

She sees Molly hesitate, then Caleb speaks up from behind Beau, peering around the shed at the manor.

“I do not believe anyone saw us. We should go.”

“Yeah, let’s skedaddle before someone finds that guard,” Nott adds, bouncing.

Yasha’s eyebrows come together. There’s a problem with leaving just like that, she wants to tell them, but she can’t spit the words out quickly enough.

Molly grabs her chin rather unexpectedly, and pulls her face down to look at her. It’s hard to tell with his eyes, but he’s meeting hers. His grin drops.

“Are you… are you  _ high, _ darling?”

“What?” Beau is suddenly there, peering up at her, too. Her face is troubled, though Yasha isn’t sure what they see. She hasn’t seen a mirror in weeks.

“High as a kite,” Molly confirms with a hint of a snarl. “If your eyes are any indication. Moonweaver, I’m ready to slice that man’s—”

“Yes.” Yasha takes Molly’s hand off her face. “I don’t know what it is. All the slaves are dependent.”

“Jerks,” mutters Beau.

“So you’re, like, really addicted to something?” Nott asks, following Caleb back over.

“That is an expensive strategy to keep slaves from running away.” Caleb, who’s wearing a familiar pink pack on his back, twists his face in thought.

Yasha shrugs. “It’s effective.”

“Jester will likely be able to do something about it,” Caleb continues. He sees her face and adds, “We’re close to finding her, too, don’t worry.”

Nott pipes up. “Your trail was the strongest, and closest. But we’ve got leads.”

_ Lady Thirre, _ Yasha remembers. She wants to say it, but everyone’s talking too fast, and she’s starting to get disoriented. She reaches up to scratch the back of her neck.

“In the meantime, though,” Molly says, “We’ll need to nab some of those drugs. I’ve seen addicts quit cold turkey–it’s never pretty. And if this is magic, it’s worse.”

“So we get to beat up a slave owner? Frickin’ fantastic.” Beau grins, though her lips are too tight against her teeth. She punches her own hand once for emphasis.

“I’ll get the explosives,” Nott offers. She reaches into her pocket.

With a long-suffering sigh, Caleb rubs his head. “Not yet. Do you know where they store it all, Yasha?”

She considers. “The basement. Maybe an office. A shipment… might be due soon?”

“Three days,” whispers a new voice from behind Yasha. She turns, slow as always, and feels more than sees the others draw their weapons.

The half-elf stands there, in the shadow of the shed, looking worried but firm. His blond hair makes him look washed-out.

“The shipment is due in three days,” he repeats at a low volume. He looks nervously at the swords, firearm, magic gesture, and very dangerous fists pointed at him.

“Who are you?” Beau demands, eyes narrowed.

“Arthur. I’m Lord Bassin’s… um, sorcerer. You won’t remember, but my mother… well, you saved her town.” He ducks his head a little, but keeps his eyes up. “I… I saw the three there, at the auction house. I wondered, and may have… charmed Lord Bassin a bit, to bid higher. I didn’t dare try that more than once, though. I’m sorry.”

Beau looks at Nott, who looks at Caleb, who looks at Molly, who looks at Yasha. She weighs the half-elf’s words.

“I think… I believe you,” she finally says. “But I have wondered. Are you hired?”

The others relax their stances slightly, though they remain tense.

The half-elf, Arthur, grimaces at her question and answers quietly. “Officially, yes. He bought me, same as you, then Lord Bassin caught me using magic to escape. I fed him a story about how I couldn’t do it for him if I was a slave. He bought it. Technically, he pays me in food, and doesn’t make me smoke.”

“Do you know what it is?” Molly asks, his blades resting on his shoulders rather than in his sheaths.

“Poppygrace. Lord Bassin imports a special blend. It’s magical.”

Molly winces. “Oof. Good drug. Highly addictive.”

Yasha feels a bit smug that she was right–he does know what it is.

“I say we steal all the drugs, all the money, and choke this Lord Bad Breath with his own spleen.” Nott nods decisively.

“Please do,” Arthur whispers, looking quietly. “I can settle the household if he’s gone… I’d hoped you’d come.”

“So…” Beau folds her arms again. “No offense, kid, but why haven’t you done any of that yet yourself?”

Silently, Arthur extends his left arm and pulls his sleeve up over his elbow. Yasha sees nothing but skin, though Caleb makes an interested sound and leans forward. Behind him, Nott’s claws flex on the handle of the gun.

Yasha itches her arm.

“The overall design is low-powered, but the resonance is a clever mix of self-sealing and preventative.” Caleb takes Arthur’s wrist, not noticing or ignoring the flinch, and prods the inside of his elbow. A complicated symbol appears, rather like a glowing orange tattoo.

Molly looks closer. He’s sheathed his swords sometime in the past minute, Yasha notices. “What is that? Some kind of… binder?”

“ _ Ja. _ One that prevents the use of magic except by what I assume is the express permission of the lord.” Caleb glances up at Arthur’s tense face. “He didn’t place this himself, did he?”

“No, he paid someone else,” Arthur whispers.

“Good. May I try? To remove it.”

Arthur hesitates, then nods. His fingers curl. “Go ahead.”

Without another moment wasted, Caleb positions three fingers above Arthur’s elbow, his other hand still holding the wrist. His face becomes a mask of careful concentration, and Arthur looks nervous. The spell begins to peel away, wisps of orange magic evaporating into the air.

While Caleb works, Beau takes his vacated spot looking around the side of the shed. Nott also turns outward, as if to guard, but she glances back at Caleb every few seconds.

“Potent stuff,” Molly hums from nearby, having snuck over to Yasha again while she was distracted. She looks down at the thing he’s offering. It’s a rolled cigar, fatter and fancier than the usual ones she gets.

“Nicked ‘em off the sorcerer,” he explains. “Looks like poppygrace, all right.”

Arthur’s not paying attention to them. These are likely the nobleman’s, anyway, so Yasha doesn’t feel very guilty about taking them. Still, she glares at the one she holds, even as Molly pulls a flame from somewhere and lights the end.

“Yasha, I know it flipping sucks, but until we can find Jester or something, we don’t have many options. Don’t think I won’t notice the symptoms.”

“I know,” Yasha responds, then brings the smoldering cigar to her lips. The smoke is familiar at this point, as is the action. As it sweeps into her lungs and out again into the cool air, warmth seeps through her bones like sinking into a hot bath. Or sitting in front of a bonfire. After a few more breaths, the itching subsides, and she feels more awake, if still a bit slow.

Caleb mutters something to himself, still working on Arthur’s arm. The orange symbol looks almost entirely gone. Yasha leans against the shed at her back, Molly’s familiar presence at her side.

“You came,” she says. “You’re here.” Her voice is weaker than she’d intended, and emotional.

“Of course, sweetheart.” Molly’s red eyes look worried but his mouth is smiling. “We’ll always come. I’ll always come.”

Yasha almost smiles back and feels an urge to hug him. She compromises by patting his arm.

“It’s done,” Caleb announces then, stepping back. “There has been some buildup, so you will have a bit more of a magical reserve for a few minutes. It will wear off quickly.”

“Will he notice it’s gone?” Arthur’s voice rises to something resembling a normal volume for the first time.

“When he tries to use the connection,  _ ja. _ ”

Arthur nods. “Soon, then. I’m going to go kill him.”

Nott perks up. “Can we come?”

“We’re going,” Yasha answers for him. She drops the nearly-gone cigar to the dirt. Beau gives a grin, eager to punch someone, and Caleb steps forward with the pink back she recognizes as Jester’s in his hands. He fishes around for a moment, then pulls out Yasha’s sword and gives it to her with a bit of visible effort. 

The heavy leather hilt feels good in her hands. She’s missed this. Even now, the group bustling around, preparing, feels incomplete, like an empty village. However, there’s a renewed sense of belonging that, in her drugged state, brings a prick of tears to Yasha’s eyes. She blinks them back before anyone can see.

The tree cover leading up to the manor’s front door is not exactly thick, but it’s enough to shield them all from the sentry positions if they’re careful. An expert did not design this. As they mosey up toward the manor, Molly sticks to Yasha’s elbow. It’s a good feeling.

“You’re sure you’re all right, darling?”

“I’m well enough for this.”

With the smoke of poppygrace warming her organs from the inside and the chill of the darkening air outside cooling her skin, Yasha is ready. She’s ready to destroy Lord Bassin and get far, far away from his estate, preferably ruining him and his empire of slaves in the process. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to get angry enough to tap into that particular well of power, but she doesn’t anticipate a hard fight. Her usual strength is enough this time.

The front doors, heavy with precious wood, freeze over and burst open at a gesture from Arthur. He leads the charge, shoulders back, hands burning with ice, and half the guards scramble immediately to get out of the way. The other half stick hesitantly to their posts, holding hallways and doors.

One way or another, the entryway clears. Sounds of shouting from far away reach Yasha’s ears, and she focuses on cutting down those who stand in their way as they comb through the manor. To her disappointment, not many  _ do _ stand in her way.

All too soon, the group stands in a luxurious office, feeling fresh and up for a fight. Nott hefts her new gun, Caleb protects Jester’s bag, and Molly and Beau punch out one more guard and shut the door.

Unfortunately, Lord Bassin isn’t going to give them a fight. He raises his hands in the air and widens his eyes at the blood on their weapons. He speaks, addressing Arthur, whose face is stony.

“Whatever you want, you can have it,” Lord Bassin says immediately. “Money, land, anything. You can take Beastie there.” Yasha snarls at the name, and he flinches backward. Coward.

Expressionless, Arthur holds out a hand. “The key to the storage.”

With shaking fingers and a trembling lip, Lord Bassin pulls an ordinary key from his vest pocket and hands it over.

“I don’t want trouble,” he says with a quiver to his voice.

“Too late, you freakin’ jerk,” Beau snaps, slamming her hands down on the desk.

“Please!” Lord Bassin throws his hands up and ducks his head, eyes shut tight. It’s pathetic, really, and Yasha can tell that the others think so, too. They’re about to strike, and when this is finished, they’ll go find Jess.

Hold on. Doesn’t Yasha know something?

“Wait,” she says, and Arthur pulls his arm back. His other hand clenches Lord Bassin’s fluffy white jabot, lifting his fat butt from the chair. When had he done that? Everyone looks at her.

“Lady Thirre. Where is she?”

“East of here,” Lord Bassin squeaks eagerly. “East! She travels a lot! Her carriages are colored blue!”

Yasha considers, then nods. That sounds accurate. The woman and her guard had been dressed in blue. “Go ahead.”

Lord Bassin shrieks, then falls silent.

Yasha exchanges a grimly satisfied look with Arthur and takes a turn kicking the frozen-blue corpse. She doesn’t hold much personal animosity for him, having really only seen him that one time, but she’s glad Arthur got his vengeance.

The door’s latch clicks, and a guard peeks in. He looks horrified.

Arthur straightens and holds up his hand. “Peace, Geoffrey. I’ll see to a bonus if you can rally the others. I’ll tell everyone what’s going on as soon as we get this party taken care of.”

Geoffrey hesitates, his eyes flicking to the body, then to Yasha, and back to Arthur. Then he snaps up and salutes.

“Yes, sir. I’ll get the estate under control.”

“Thank you, Geoffrey. Be kind with the other slaves, please?”

“Yes, sir,” he repeats, then disappears.

Arthur sighs. “Let’s go find that poppygrace store and send you on your way. I have a lot of work to do. Come.” He leads the way out of the office and down wide halls Yasha hasn’t seen before.

Beau gestures out a window at some smokers. “You’re getting rid of all this crap?”

“Systematically.” Arthur nods and takes long steps. His quick, louder tone of voice brings out more of his personality, though right now, it’s filtered by determination. “It will be slow, but I want to give everyone time to recover, and divide up the state cleanly. People deserve compensation, as much as I can give them.”

It takes a few minutes to reach the basement. Perhaps they could have gotten there faster using the servant hallways, but Arthur seems to be avoiding those. That makes sense. Yasha’s okay with that. The extra time gives her a chance to appreciate the colors in the intricate wallpaper.

… Did she really just think that?

Molly’s hand is on her arm as he pulls her along. She blinks away the rainbow in her eyes and gives him an apologetic look.

He responds with a bright smile, letting her know he doesn’t mind. “I’m just glad you’re here and okay,” he says beneath Arthur’s detailed explanation of how he plans to run things.

Caleb listens intently, and Beau shoots out the occasional comment. From a few steps ahead, Nott sends Yasha a big smile, too, her short cloak swishing on the deep carpet.

“Ah, yes,” Arthur emerges from the depths of the house and hands Caleb his loot–a decorated wooden box. “Lady Thirre, I remember.”

Yasha snaps to attention, doing her best to puzzle through his words. Beau’s jaw tightens.

“I remember seeing a letter from her a few days ago,” Arthur continues. “She said that she was traveling westward. She lives to the east, and she was expected to visit two or three days ago, but she never showed up.”

“Why wouldn’t she show up?” Caleb asks, concerned. The wooden box has disappeared into the pink bag he still carries. It looks wrong on him, and not just because it’s pink. It belongs on someone else.

“Any number of reasons. Maybe she just decided not to.”

“And  _ she’s _ the jerk who has Jester, right?” Beau glances back at Yasha. “Would she have… brought her along?”

Arthur grimaces. “Chances are… yes. This is the blue tiefling?” Everyone nods. Molly squints suspiciously. “Lady Thirre has a… preference for…  _ exotic _ slaves. She’s brought a few through here before. I know she likes keeping them close.”

“They’re… pets?” Caleb’s lip curls.

“Er, well. Yes. Sort of. I wish I had more specific directions to give you.”

“Let’s go steal them blind,” Nott says eagerly, eyes wide.

“Do you need anything? Food, tents?” Arthur leads them back upstairs.

Caleb hefts Jester’s bag. “We have what we need, but  _ danke. _ ”

Arthur nods. “Good luck.” He glances at Yasha. “I pray you find them, and that they’re all right.”

“Thank you,” Yasha says, for all of them.

They bid farewell to Arthur, good riddance to Lord Bassin, then walk out, in a wounded-but-healing troupe. East.

**Author's Note:**

> I mayyyy have a Jester one half-written too. If this one is any good.


End file.
